The Journey of a Detective
by Thorn17
Summary: After the events of The Reichenbach Fall, John Watson is once again left to piece his life back together with the assistance of a Holmes brother. But is everything really what it seems?
1. Chapter 1

"_But please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me, don't be ... **dead.** Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop **this**..."_

Walking away from Sherlock Holmes was something that I never thought I would do. However, he had given me no choice this time. Whilst I sat in an armchair within 221B Baker Street, Sherlock lay buried inside a coffin six feet underground ‒ the one place on the Earth that we could not go together ‒ although at the height of my grief I admit that I may have been tempted to try. Saying goodbye to him was the hardest thing I had done since being invalided home from the army. Somehow, Sherlock ‒ of_ all_ people ‒ had managed to help me heal from _that_ experience and move on. He probably wouldn't understand that though. He would label it as 'sentiment_'_ and give it no further thought. Or would he? If ‒ after meeting him for the first time ‒ somebody had asked me whether or not Sherlock Holmes was capable of experiencing the feelings that he so despised, I would have said that he wasn't. People like Sergeant Sally Donovan and Anderson would still say that now, but then they didn't know him as well as I did. I had once remarked ‒and Sherlock had reiterated it to _him_, Moriarty ‒ that Sherlock did not have a heart, but this was too much of a simplistic view, I realised that now. Moriarty himself had said that the statement was not quite true, but I didn't fully understand what he meant, until now. Sherlock _cared_ about people, he was just afraid to show it. Afraid that what he perceived to be his weakness would be used against him. He _must_ have cared, there was no other ‒ to use Sherlock's own word ‒ _logical_ explanation.

"_Once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."_

A memory of Sherlock's voice offering one of his favourite cryptic sayings appeared in my mind without being summoned. I scoffed. As if the real Sherlock would support such a comment as the one I had just made in my mind. He had described emotions as "the grit in the lens, the fly in the ointment." Why would the despised _sentiment_ cause Sherlock to throw himself from the roof of Bart's hospital? That certainly wasn't logical, and it definitely didn't show any consideration for anybody's feelings, particularly mine. Mrs. Hudson and Molly were inconsolable, and Lestrade was burdened with enormous guilt tied together with torn loyalties between his admiration for Sherlock and his duty to the police force. I knew that trying to convince Mycroft to divulge his true feelings ‒ or any feelings at all, for that matter ‒ would be futile. As for me, my heartache and pain had changed into numbness. I felt nothing and everything, all at once.

To me, functioning normally had become boring and therefore lost its appeal now; eating, drinking, sleeping. Even dating. It was all a waste of time if there was nothing to do it for. For once, I understood completely what Sherlock had regularly experienced; his need for a distraction, for the nicotine patches, for a case. Mrs Hudson had given up trying to tempt me to eat properly or socialise. She had even consulted Mycroft for help, though why she thought that seeing one of the people who I blamed for what happened would help me was beyond my comprehension. I'm sure that Sherlock would have had a theory though. If not a theory, then an answer.

Sherlock had spent his final minutes alive trying to break my confidence in him, before eventually jumping from the roof. The emotion in his voice as he 'confessed' had sounded real enough, but then I had seen him switch convincing-but-fake emotions on and off like a tap during several of our investigations. Had emotion and sentiment finally betrayed him? Had he been upset and fearful at the prospect of jumping, or was the emotional response actually a release from unburdening his 'lies' about his intellectual capabilities? I could not ‒ for one _second_ ‒ believe that he had lied to me for all this time, but I couldn't bring myself to accept that he had always told me the complete truth either.

Ever since the incident at Bart's hospital, my cyclical thoughts had remained constant throughout.

_"He can't be dead. He just can't."_

_ "But you saw him fall." _

_ "He's buried in the cemetery." _

_ "But how do you know that? They wouldn't let you see his body."_

_ "Well, in fairness, the injuries sustained from that fall would have been pretty severe." _

_ "Yes, but you're an army doctor, it's likely that you've seen worse."_

Perfect(!) I was having arguments with myself now, and was beginning to understand why Sherlock had missed having the skull that he had been so fond of talking too. Maybe my therapist was right after all ‒ though her previous efforts at diagnosing my problems had definitely not been one hundred percent accurate ‒ and it was all just wishful thinking on my behalf that Sherlock was alive. That, in reality, there was no doubt that it was Sherlock's body inside the coffin, that there had been no secret cover up and there was no chance at all that Sherlock had survived the fall but just didn't know how to let us know. Or, maybe my therapist had been in on the whole thing, right from the start. Maybe she had become part of Sherlock's network of contacts, and he had instructed her that under no circumstances was she to allow me to believe that he was alive. If so, was it for my benefit? Or for his? Or both? My therapist had been right about one thing; that I had "trust issues." I'd trusted everyone ‒ Mycroft, Sherlock, Lestrade ‒ and looked where I had ended up. I couldn't even trust my own thoughts any more.

I've often heard people say that if somebody close to them died, they'd be able to feel it. I'd felt pain before, unbearable pain, but I didn't feel alone. The space that Sherlock filled ‒ whatever it was ‒ was still full. I had detected no change, and my feelings hadn't altered. What did this mean? Was it wishful thinking or was it _real_? I needed somebody to help me fathom this out. I hadn't seen Molly since the day of Sherlock's death, and so it would be difficult to go to her. Mrs. Hudson was too upset to even mention his name, never mind help me discover the truth. Lestrade faced an inquiry at work after his boss had discovered that he had allowed Sherlock 'the fake genius' to assist in numerous police cases. It would be unfair to approach any of these people with what could only be described as my wishful-thinking, shot-in-the-dark theories. As much as I despised the only course of action available to me, I knew that I did not have a choice. Mycroft Holmes was now the only accessible person with the deduction methods capable of helping me. As a result of this, I would try to follow another of Sherlock's sayings, one that I even I could understand and relate to.

"_Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side._"

I would have to put aside whatever negative feelings I possessed for Mycroft and ask him to help me make some sense of this situation. He owed me that much at least. He owed _Sherlock._


	2. Chapter 2

The Diogenes Club had not changed at all since my last visit. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for everything. The nature of the silent gentleman's club remained as exclusive and reclusive as ever, but it seemed that ‒subconsciously ‒ I was beyond caring about that. During the taxi journey from Baker Street to the club, I had felt suitably prepared and restrained to enter the club in order to talk things over rationally and maturely with Mycroft; no emotional responses, no scene-causing, nothing at all. I had been naive. In reality, it appeared that I was not as accustomed to repressing my emotions as the Holmes brothers were. Emotion ‒ specifically anger ‒ overcame my senses, and I was only brought back to reality by a loud, echoing cry. Belatedly, I realised that it was mine. My call ricocheted around the walls within one room of the club, containing several silent, suited men.

"Mycroft Holmes!"

I only had a brief moment to fully appreciate the expressions of horror on the men's faces before two burly men appeared in the doorway and 'escorted' me into the Stranger's Room. My therapist would probably have some nonsensical theory ready in order to explain the sudden changes in my behaviour. I didn't care. The only explanation that I wanted to hear was Mycroft's regarding his brothers' demise. Although I had deviated from my plan of action, my deviation had still achieved the desired result. Being manhandled into the Stranger's Room had brought me face-to-face with the man himself. Although I could not ‒ at present ‒ forgive Mycroft for divulging personal information about Sherlock to the man that would cause his downfall, it was those said indiscretions that meant that he was indebted to me.

"Ah, John. I have been expecting you. Please, sit down."

"I don't want to 'sit down', Mycroft."

"Humour me."

It seemed that stubbornness was a trait that ran deep in members of the Holmes family, which rendered arguing with them pointless. I had said once before that Sherlock would outlive God trying to have the last word, and now it seemed that the brothers had more in common than either of them would care to admit. I chose to sit on a wooden chair directly opposite the desk that Mycroft was sitting at. To me, the chair appeared to be surprisingly symbolic and representative of Mycroft; talented at causing an air of discomfort through its physically unyielding nature.

"You know why I'm here."

It was an unnecessary statement. Mycroft would have correctly analyzed my intentions from the moment I had been frogmarched into the room, but my innate desire to break the awkward silence had overridden all logic.

"Yes, I believe I do," he muttered quietly. "Would you care for a brandy, John?"

"You can stop the pleasantries, Mycroft. Your brother didn't suit being 'funny' and you don't suit being 'concerned'. What I would_ really_ like, though, are some answers. I can't maintain this facade any longer, pretending to believe that Sherlock is a dead fraud, a _fake_, when it is blatantly obvious that I do not. I don't expect you to understand how much it _hurts_ me. I want ‒ I _need_ ‒ him to be alive, and I just _can't_ bring myself to believe that Sherlock ever lied to me. He wouldn't commit suicide over something he _had _done, never mind something he hadn't. He'd just sulk indefinitely until another distraction came along."

I would have smiled at the memories, but I couldn't bring myself to remember those occasions. They hurt too much.

"Then maybe you didn't know him as well as you think." Mycroft paused, gauging my reaction before continuing. "If you don't believe that Sherlock is dead, then why do you say that 'he _didn't_ suit being funny'? Surely a more appropriate phrase would be that 'he _does not'_? Using the incorrect tense indicates that you truly believe that Sherlock must be dead, but you do not wish it to be true."

"_What_? Surely your _own_ use of the phrase 'Sherlock_ must be _dead' instead of 'Sherlock _is_ dead' indicates that you know something that I don't! Tell me what you should've told me before, Mycroft."

My emotional responses didn't compute to Mycroft, and so he chose to ignore them. He simply continued to make unwelcome observations. "You have neglected to take proper care of yourself, John. You've lost weight since I last saw you, and there are dark circles under your eyes. I can tell from your ‒"

"Stop it!" I couldn't bear to hear any Holmes-style analysis again. "None of that matters, Mycroft. My wellbeing is not the most pressing issue here. I need to know, for my own sanity I _have_ to hear you say it. Sherlock is still alive, isn't he? He has to be."

For one moment, I thought that Mycroft wouldn't answer. What could have only been a second of silence seemed like a decade, until the words that I had been longing to hear were spoken. "Yes, John. My brother is alive and well."

And there it was. Mycroft Holmes had spoken a sentence, a spell almost, the result of which I could feel already taking effect. For once, I found it difficult to put into words how to describe my feelings; relief, euphoria and annoyance were the most fitting. Sherlock _was _alive! For once, _I _had been right and everybody else had been wrong. I may not possess the same great intellect of the Holmes brothers, but I was temporarily on their level all the same. Even though it seemed that life was almost worth living again, my heart ached with annoyance that he had not ‒ _did _not ‒ trust me enough to confide in me. _Me, _the man that he had implied was his only friend. It seemed that he had willingly allowed me to return to the dark place that he had rescued me from all those months ago, and that hurt more than I could say.

"How long have you known?"

"John," Mycroft began, but this time my patience was wearing thin.

I banged my fist on the desk. "Tell me, Mycroft!"

He sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Ever since the day that he threw himself from the roof."

"So that did actually happen then?"

"I cannot tell you any more than I have. I have already said too much. Believe me when I say that I _am _sorry."

Just as it had been on so many other occasions with regards to Mycroft Holmes, arguing would be futile. To my surprise, Mycroft continued by offering information that I had not asked for. I was beginning to wonder if sentiment and emotions ‒ especially loyalty, regret and guilt ‒ affected the elder Holmes more than he cared to admit.

"Sherlock forbade me to divulge any information regarding his survival to you. This is the second time that I have betrayed him, as I would normally have complied with his instructions. However, observing how broken you have become, I felt that I owed you some small comfort. Unfortunately, most of the pain that you have suffered ‒ both emotional and physical ‒ has been caused by me, whether it be directly or indirectly. For this, I apologise."

I nodded. The length and depth of Mycroft's speech unnerved me. "So what, that's it? You can't tell me something that important and then just expect me to leave it at that!"

"Oh, would you rather I had told you nothing? Or worse, told you that Sherlock was in fact _dead_? Would you have preferred the lies over the truth? Neither would have spared your _feelings_." As Mycroft sneered and spat the word 'feelings', he triggered a memory of Sherlock doing exactly the same thing whilst we were in Baskerville. _Sherlock._ "Sherlock does not wish to be found at present, John. Neither you or I can do anything about that, if that is what he chooses. His disguises are not always as obvious as he sometimes makes them, and his network of acquaintances is wider than even _I_ imagined."

"So what am I supposed to do now? Sit and wait for him?"

"Yes," he said simply. "You should also start ignoring comments about Sherlock that appear in the media. I know the one about him being a 'fake genius' has particularly bothered you. It is highly probable that Sherlock may have planted some of the comments himself. You must continue living your life the best you can."

"I didn't have a life before I met Sherlock. I merely had an existence." I sighed as a realisation dawned on me. I'd gone back to being one step behind a Holmes, but I didn't mind this time. "You don't make errors."

"Excuse me?" The eagle eyes of the elder Holmes narrowed in confusion.

"You. You don't make errors. That 'error' in tense you made earlier regarding Sherlock's 'death', you made it on purpose didn't you? It was a test."

A smile, almost invisible to the naked eye, flashed across Mycroft's face. "I see your time with Sherlock has been to your mutual advantage. The answer to your question is 'yes'. I needed to observe if you would pick up on this. If you hadn't, it would have shown me that you were not ready to be told the truth."

I could not think of a clever comment worth retaliating with. For what felt like the first time in years, I began to smile. I was rejuvenated by the knowledge that my best friend was still alive, somewhere.

"Thank you for telling me the truth, Mycroft. I mean it. I promise I'll wait for him to find me." I extended my arm to start a handshake. Mycroft reciprocated and shook my hand with a firm grip.

"What will you do now, John?"

"I'll go after him, of course."

"Obviously. You are a terrible liar. The handshake was a nice touch, but you failed to make eye contact with me when you promised to wait for him. Bear that in mind in the future. In pursuing Sherlock, you are certain to find yourself in precarious situations where being able to lie convincingly may be the difference between life and death."

"I will." I paused. "Do you want to help me to find Sherlock?"

"I think it would be best if I did not. You share a connection with Sherlock that I can never hope to understand. Therefore, it is probable that you will find him easier on your own. Besides, it is too much _legwork._"


	3. Chapter 3

I returned home in a daze, even opting to walk instead of phoning for a cab or accepting Mycroft's offer of a lift with 'Anthea' in his personal car. I needed to think. I had so much information to process properly in order to clear my head, and feeling compelled to make petty small talk with somebody would not help me. I could see now why Sherlock didn't talk for days on end when he was particularly engaged in a case. The distraction of human interaction would have been pretty irritating under the circumstances. This was not the only contributory factor to my choosing to walk, as my bank balance was also decreasing rapidly. I had been out of work for some time, for one reason or another. Though I knew that Mycroft would not have asked for direct monetary payment, men like Mycroft Holmes did not give something and expect no favour in return. We were back on a level playing field now, neither of us owing the other anything, and I was determined to leave it that way. It seemed that a faint air of normality was descending, but as I reached the end of my long walk home, my mind became hyperactive once more. Had Sherlock been watching me all this time? Was he watching me now_? _If not the man himself, then were his associates? I had passed a lot of homeless people during my journey back from the Diogenes club, but that didn't necessarily mean that they were all part of Sherlock's homeless network. Or did it? Was the whole homeless network of London laughing at me, having known that Sherlock was alive all this time? It was unlikely. In order for whatever plan he had to work, Sherlock needed as many people as possible to believe that he was dead.

_"His disguises are not always as obvious as he sometimes makes them."_

Mycroft's earlier remark seemed to provide a caption for my actions as I realised that I had inadvertently been scanning the people on Baker Street looking for Sherlock. Everybody looked so _normal_ ‒ though I don't know how you would define that, probably as 'the complete opposite of Sherlock' ‒ and the only person of any interest to me was a violin-playing busker on the street corner. The only reason that he drew my attention at all was that his music was simply _dreadful_, so awful that I would've happily donated some money to him with the promise that he would use some other London street in the future. Just then, I had a moment of sudden inspiration where everything seemed to click into place; all the facts, theories and cover-ups. Could it be that _Sherlock _was the busker? Had Mycroft somehow alerted him to my suspicions that he was alive, and so he had returned to explain in person? I was vaguely aware that my footsteps were becoming quicker as I pushed passed people to get to the busker, but reality dawned on me when I was but a few metres away from him. Needless to say, it wasn't Sherlock. I would have recognised his eyes and cheekbones from miles away. Once again, I'd put two (the word "alive") and two (the phrase "violin-player") together to get five ("the busker must be Sherlock!"). Thankfully ‒ and to the credit of my inferior intellectual capacities ‒ it only took me a second to remember that Sherlock would not have done anything as obvious or stupid as that, and I reluctantly admitted to myself that I was being irrational. Sherlock played the violin so well that, even with his uncanny ability to disguise himself so easily, it would surely be impossible for him to pretend to truly sound _that _bad. I could only be thankful that this realisation had occurred _before_ I had approached the man. I didn't fancy being arrested for harassment. It wouldn't really look good alongside the previous offenses listed against my name, both of which had been caused ‒ either directly or indirectly ‒ by Sherlock. I had been arrested for assaulting the Chief Superintendent who had insulted Sherlock, and had also been given an ASBO thanks to Raz, one of Sherlock's graffiti-artist, law-breaking associates.

_"It was one possible explanation of _some_ of the facts. You had a theory that you liked and were choosing to ignore anything that didn't comply with it, John."_

I shouldn't have been surprised that Sherlock was chastising me from 'beyond-the-grave'. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. That man would outlive God trying to have the last word. Belatedly I realised that now Mycroft had confirmed my suspicions, I had been expecting Sherlock to simply appear before me. The rational part of my mind told me that this was illogical. Mycroft would have no way of alerting Sherlock to tell him that I knew of his survival. The police had confiscated Sherlock's broken phone as 'evidence' after the fall from Bart's hospital. It would be sat inside a box somewhere gathering dust, no doubt. Even though Sherlock had obviously contacted Mycroft _somehow_ to tell him of his survival, both Holmes brothers would have made sure that no trace of the communication could ever be found, in turn preventing the truth from becoming known. It was obviously imperative that the world believed Sherlock was dead, but I wished that I understood _why_. Almost automatically, I took out my phone and began to compose a text. It would never be read, but its words would make me feel better all the same. I added Sherlock's contact details to the intended recipient box and sent the following words:

_Sherlock, you really are an idiot if you thought that I would simply accept and believe your lies about being a fake. Like it or not, I know you better than that. I know that you're alive, I _will_ find you, and you'd better have a good explanation ready for when I do. John._

I put my phone away and began to retrace my steps back to 221B. I'd walked past it in my temporary belief that Sherlock was the busker. My subconscious mind must still have harboured the hope that Sherlock was nearby, because as I walked up the stairs to our flat, I half-expected to meet Sherlock on the landing. Instead, I was met by a shaky Mrs. Hudson.

"John! I was getting worried about you, I didn't know where you'd gone! You didn't leave a note..." Her voice trailed off. It didn't take a Holmes brother to deduce that she was remembering the contents of Sherlock's 'note'. She cleared her throat, her voice becoming strained due to the emotion evoked by the memory. "Where _did_ you go?"

"To see Mycroft."

"Oh," I could see her eyes narrow with confusion as to why I would visit Sherlock's brother, the man that I had blamed for his demise. "Did he have much to say?"

"Does he ever?" The urge to tell her that Sherlock survived was overwhelming because she was obviously so distraught over his 'death.' However, a loud growl from Mrs. Hudson's stomach prevented me from acting upon the urge at present. "You look hungry, Mrs. Hudson. Shall we have dinner?"

Her face flushed as she realised that I had heard her stomach voice its dissatisfaction at being void of food, but she looked thankful for the distraction that would prevent us from discussing the Holmes brothers. "Oh, that'd be lovely John! I haven't eaten much today. I'll just get my coat."

Mrs. Hudson disappeared downstairs into her own flat, and I was left staring into mine. She had obviously used my absence to her advantage, tidying away the debris of rubbish that had amassed on the floor. I felt guilty, something that I hadn't experienced in a while. _Feelings. _Until I heard Mycroft's admission, I had been numb and devoid of emotion. Now, I was experiencing a range of feelings that I had thought would never return again.Mrs. Hudson was _not _my housekeeper, and I resolved to stop treating her as such and taking her for granted.

"It seems chilly outside, John. You should really put another jumper on before we go," fussed Mrs. Hudson as she appeared at the foot of the stairs. I began to descend back down when my phone bleeped with a text alert. It had been so long since I had received a text from somebody that my last texts from Sherlock still appeared in the 'recent messages' section of the inbox. My sister Harry had always insisted on telephone calls so that she could ascertain my true feelings, saying it was too easy to lie through texts. Her 'concern' didn't seem to stretch to warranting a visit though. A new thought formed in my mind, causing butterflies to somersault in my stomach. Could my text possibly be from Sherlock? He _was_ the last person I had text, and therefore it would be logical to assume that the latest reply was from him. Though his phone was _supposed_ to be locked inside a box somewhere, I knew that laws regarding breaking-and-entering were irrelevant to him. To say 'my heart sank' was an understatement when I realised that I'd suspected the wrong brother.

_Nobody must know of what we discussed, John. M._

I didn't know how to respond to that, seeing as I had _already_ refrained from telling Mrs. Hudson the truth, so I simply locked my phone again and walked to Angelo's restaurant with her. Dinner was relatively uneventful; nobody mistook me for being in a relationship with Mrs. Hudson. I began to wonder if her presence finally convinced Angelo that Sherlock and I were not a couple. When we returned back to Baker Street a couple of hours later, we said goodnight and went to our separate flats. Nothing could have prepared me for the note that had been pinned to the entrance to 221B.

_The art of disguise is knowing how to hide in plain sight. SH._


	4. Chapter 4

Words would struggle to describe how I felt after reading that note. My stomach was literally churning like a washing machine, though not the washing machine located in 221B because it hadn't worked since before I'd moved in. Mrs. Hudson, despite her many insistences that she was _not _our housekeeper, had cleaned our washing in her own working washing machine in the flat downstairs. A sudden wave of sickness had overcome me, causing me to feel extremely ill and to regret the dinner I had just shared with Mrs. Hudson. I didn't regret spending time with _her_, I just wished that I'd stayed in the flat just as I had been doing for weeks. I held back the urge to scream curses in six different languages, an ability that I had learned after being exposed to them during my years at school and in the Army. If _I_ hadn't suggested leaving Baker Street to go to Angelo's restaurant, then there was a chance that I would've seen Sherlock again. Admittedly, it was a minuscule chance, because it was much more likely that he simply would have waited for the next time I left 221B before leaving his confusing message. These deductions of mine were being made with the assumption that it _was _Sherlock that had left the note. The only person I knew that was cruel enough to forge a note from the man I had been mourning was Moriarty, and I was fairly certain that _he _was dead. Nothing was definite in my mind any more; I'd thought Sherlock dead but he was alive, so I had no authority to declare Moriarty dead too, whatever my personal beliefs. There was something about the three geniuses ‒ Mycroft, Sherlock and Moriarty ‒ that meant that they would tend to fall back on predisposed over-dramatic tendencies in order to prove a point. Moriarty would not have _pretended _to shoot himself in the hope of persuading somebody to do something, he would simply have done it. This, alongside the knowledge that Moriarty wouldn't have been able to wait this long before refreshing my emotional pain, reassured my mind that he was dead. However, I still didn't know what had happened to cause Moriarty and Sherlock to feel that they both needed to die. That meeting _had _to be the missing clue that would help me to find Sherlock.

One of the issues at the forefront of my mind was how Sherlock knew that _I _knew. Unless I had been wrong ‒ which _was_ the most likely explanation ‒ and Mycroft _had _managed to contact him after all, then nothing had changed. Molly still hadn't returned from wherever it was that she had gone, and Lestrade was still hidden underneath mounds of paperwork and inquiries. It seemed improbable that Sherlock had actually received my text, which only left the explanation that he had been watching me the whole time. If this _was_ what had happened, then it took my back to square one. Even if he'dbeen watching me all this time, how would he know that something had changed _today_? No, Mycroft must have had something to do with it, but the elder Holmes had made it quite plain that he would not - or _could_ not - give me any more information, therefore rendering another visit pointless.

_The art of disguise is knowing how to hide in plain sight. SH._

What if Mrs. Hudson had seen the note? She has probably cooked and cleaned more in 221B than I ever have. According to Mycroft, nobody bar me was to know of Sherlock's survival, so why was he leaving a note in such a risky place where Mrs. Hudson could have easily stumbled upon it? Also, his words themselves were as frustrating as the place he had chosen to leave them, and the true intention behind it. The man was so annoyingly and obnoxiously _cryptic_. If the Guinness World Book of Records didn't currently have a record for the world's most irritating man, then I would be happy to nominate Sherlock Holmes to be the first. It seemed obvious to me that 'art of disguise' seemed to indicate that he had donned a clever disguise that was meant to last for a long time, not one of those phony pretenses that were simply intended to get him into a desired secret location, such as the Baskerville testing site. But what did 'plain sight' mean? I stared at the yellow bullet-ridden smiley face that had been drawn on the flat wall, half expecting it to morph into Sherlock's face. It came as no great surprise when it didn't. It frustrated me that the words in the note seemed so straight-forward, but when I tried to apply them to real life in order to decipher it, my attempts were fruitless. Was there even a hidden message within it, or was the message somehow as plain as the words on the page, and it was just my imagination trying to make things more complicated in order to fit in with Sherlock's typical air of mystery? It was definitely _looked _like Sherlock's handwriting, and the enigmatic tone of the message provided even more proof. However, besides this I had no further clues or ideas about where Sherlock was, or what he was asking me to do, if anything. Suddenly, I had a brainwave. Obviously I couldn't mention Sherlock's survival to anybody, but I _could _phone Lestrade and ask him what he would do in this situation. Of course, he would have to believe that it was a hypothetical scenario. I took out my phone and dialed the number for the first time in weeks. The way I saw it, no matter how heavy his current workload was, Lestrade's boss would have never ordered him to review all of the cases that Sherlock had assisted with if Lestrade had managed to maintain his faith in him.

He answered on the second ring, with a tone of boredom that I knew very well, having heard Sherlock speak using it many times before. "Lestrade."

"Greg, it's John. John Watson." As soon as I said it, I felt foolish. Lestrade obviously knew it was me; his phone had Caller ID. It was normal for him to answer with his name because he was using his work phone, and had to be professional at all times.

"John, I've not heard from you in a while! Is everything okay?"

Well, obviously the answer was yes. Sherlock was alive, which was all that mattered. The fact that I had no idea where he was seemed to be just a minor hiccup. Unfortunately, Mycroft had forbidden me to tell Lestrade this, so I had to respond with an answer that he would expect."What do you think?" There was an awkward pause. Maybe that was a little harsh. "Sorry."

"What can I do for you?"

"To be honest, Greg, I'm not really sure. It's taken me so long to get back to a normal routine after...what happened." Even though I knew that Sherlock's death was not actually real, my throat still choked up with genuine emotion. I would never be a very good actor;. I lacked the skill to make my actions seem real. Sherlock's dramatic performances were not always very realistic, but he tried hard to make them convincing. I remembered the time that he had asked me to punch him in the face just so that it would _appear _that he had been mugged. Realising that my thought process had created a long pause in the conversation, I continued. "I've been trying to get through some of the last cases that people sent to Sherlock, and I've come across a peculiar one and was wondering if you could help me."

"Look John," sighed Lestrade. "I know this must be really difficult for you, but Sherlock is dead. Molly identified his body. Continuing with his cases as if nothing has happened will not help you to move on. It won't help _anyone _to move on." His use of the word 'anyone' implied that he was still trying to recover from the Bart's hospital incident, too.

"Yes, I know that. I just thought that if I dealt with these last cases, it might help to bring closure."

There was a long pause before I heard Lestrade sigh and speak. "Very well, John. What is it you need to know?"

"I was just wondering why criminals leave notes for people to find. I mean, the case in front of me states that a criminal leaves notes in order to help others locate the scenes of his crimes. He's even left a cryptic note hinting at where he can be found. What would the police do with a case like this?" I wasn't lying as such. The scenario was right, but the context was wrong.

"Well, there are several lines of investigation that we could follow. One is that we would..." Lestrade began to reply to my question, but I began to lose concentration on his voice when I remembered a conversation that I had shared with Sherlock when we first met.

_"I love the brilliant ones. They're always desperate to get caught. That's the frailty of genius, John."_

Everything seemed to click into place as the memory replayed in my mind. It was so obvious to me now! Sherlock _did _want to be found, but at the same time, he did not. He wanted to be found because his _feelings _caused him to feel pain over how his actions were making everybody suffer, whichwas why he had left the note. However, he _didn't_ want to be found because he was still investigating something. _That_ was why he had mentioned that he was in disguise! To me, it seemed unlikely that Sherlock would have disguised himself for all this time because he cared about what the public thought of him, as his name still hadn't been cleared from the vicious web of lies that Moriarty had invented. Fine, if it was time he wanted, then I would give him time. A short window of opportunity in which to finish investigating whatever it was that was so important that it kept him away from his friends and family. I still had a couple of things I needed to be clear about before confronting him anyway, like why everything kept coming back to the elusive Molly.

"_Molly identified his body,_" Lestrade had said. It worried me that Molly also hadn't attended Sherlock's funeral ‒ the funeral of the man that she had feelings for ‒ and that nobody had seen or heard from her since the incident at Bart's hospital. I would track her down, and then I would track Sherlock down.


	5. Chapter 5

I hadn't visited Molly's house very often, but I still thought it was slightly unfair of the cab driver to laugh at me after I had directed him down five incorrect different streets before finally finding the right one. All I'd had to do then was find the right _house_. Thankfully, this didn't take me as long as the search for the street.

"Molly?" I called through the letter box. "Molly, are you in there?" It occurred to me that she might be too scared to answer her own front door, after unwittingly having a relationship with the most psychopathic man I had ever met. I would be too, if I'd been involved in one of Moriarty's schemes, however unknowingly. "It's only me. It's John, John Watson." I was getting de ja vu about the 'Blind Banker' case. Back then, I'd shouted through a letterbox to Sherlock and he'd ignored me too. I could see an elderly lady peeking from behind a net curtain across the road, causing me to realise that my actions probably _did_ look a little suspicious: a strange man peering through the letter box of a seemingly empty house. The last thing I needed was for her to call the police and have them arrest me on suspicion of breaking and entering. Oh, yes. I had a pretty concise knowledge of crime and punishment nowadays, thanks to Sherlock.

I had retreated halfway back up the path when I heard a scuffling coming from behind the door. I waited and returned back to my original place, but the door didn't open. My newly-analytical mind - again, thanks to Sherlock - combined with my caring instincts as a doctor created a scenario that made me feel sick. What if I was too late? What if Moriarty's men had reached Molly first and hurt her? Was she lying behind the door, injured? How long had she been there; days, weeks even? Or had I arrived just in time to stop an intruder; Moriarty's men perhaps? Either way, I wouldn't know until I made an attempt to find out. Banging on the door with my fist, and no longer caring about what the neighbours thought, I called out to her. I'd lost Sherlock, there was no way I was going to lose Molly.

"Molly, is that you? Are you alright? Can you open the door?" I waited for a short while, but stomach-churning worry caused me to grow impatient rapidly, my foot anxiously tapping on the ground. I was seconds away from doing one of three things; smashing the door down, phoning the emergency services or attempting to find a back door. Before I could make a decision, the door swung open and there stood Molly. At least, the woman _looked_ like Molly. She had lost quite a bit of weight, and her hair had been scraped back in a tight bun, instead of being styled properly. It was starting to become greasy, and thin wisps of hair were beginning to escape, gently resting on the collar of her light green dressing gown. I didn't know who was more startled at the others' presence; me or her.

"John! Sorry about that. I was, er, in the bathroom."

"It's fine, don't worry. May I come inside?"

"Oh, erm, yes of course." She stepped aside and allowed me to pass.

"Sorry for all the noise I was making, hope I didn't frighten you. I _was_ about to go away but then I heard a small commotion, and I thought you might have hurt yourself." I paused before continuing, choosing the best way to phrase my next words. "You don't look too well, Molly. You know, I was a doctor _before_ I met Sherlock, and I still am now that he's, erm, not here." I sounded a little defensive and irritable, and my conscience bade me feel worse after watching emotion overcome her at the mention of his name. To her credit, as Sherlock would probably say, she managed to control herself.

"I've been unwell recently. Stomach bug, or something like that." That was a little vague for a woman who had attended medical school, albeit to carry out postmortems on dead people, not to diagnose her own illnesses. Was she deliberately trying to hide something, or had her illness rendered her confused? Now was not the time for my own paranoia.

Undeterred, I carried on. "When was the last time you ate something?"

Remembering seemed to require her to use real concentration, therefore it seemed likely that her simplistic comments were caused by illness, not deception. "Three, four days ago, maybe? The days all seem the same to me."

I knew how _that _felt too, but I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Honestly, what was it with these people? Sherlock didn't eat for days on end, and now neither was Molly! During the height of my grief, I can safely say that three square meals a day went out of the proverbial window, but I'd never gone a day without eating. Mrs. Hudson would never allow it, for one thing. I hoped that my next comments about how eating was vital for survival wouldn't come across as too hypocritical, when a new idea occurred to me. From a psychological point of view, was Molly was trying to imitate Sherlock's actions and lifestyle in a bid to feel close to him? Was that what _I _had done? Both Molly and I knew that the pain of losing Sherlock was enormous, indescribable almost. The depth of her attraction to him was blatantly obvious to everybody but Sherlock himself, it seemed. Of course he'd known that she fancied him, as he frequently used this to his advantage, but did he understand that it was _love _that she was feeling, not just lust? Whether or not Sherlock could feel or understand love had been the debate of many of my conversations, both with myself and others, including the 'Ice Man' Mycroft. It was best to endeavor to find the answer to _that _dilemma before trying to work out whether it was physically possible that Sherlock could reciprocate those feelings or not. I came to the conclusion that using tact would be wise here. It was possible that a kind, caring approach would yield more information than an interrogation-style approach. Sherlock had failed to understand that, but he'd understood something similar: people _didn't_ like telling you things, but they _loved_ to contradict you.

"You need to eat, Mol. Come on, I'll make you a sandwich or something." I could manage a sandwich, or anything that didn't require cooking or careful preparation.

"Eating seems irrelevant now," she sighed.

"Irrelevant? Come _on_, you're a pathologist. You _must _know that food equals..." And then it dawned on me, causing my voice to trail off mid-sentence. "Oh, Molly! You haven't, have you? Please tell me you're not that stupid!" So much for tact. I had an excuse: emotion. What excuse did Sherlock have, unless it was secretly the same as mine?

She began to lose control here. It was like staring into a looking glass, at past versions of me. John Watson breaking down at the sight of Sherlock's lifeless body, John Watson breaking down at Sherlock's funeral, or John Watson breaking down within 221B Baker Street when he thought nobody could see. The list was endless, but I drew on my dwindling strength to banish the thoughts from my head. I couldn't allow myself to dwell on them now that I knew he was alive, for fear of falling back into that spiral of depression. I knew I was still at risk of a relapse. There were so many similarities between my past situation and my present. Both times, I was in desperate need of an explanation. Both times, I needed Sherlock to be okay. Molly's voice interrupted those dark thoughts, and I had to admit that I was quite grateful for it.

"At the beginning, I admit that I may have, er, failed to take proper care of myself on purpose. I was so miserable, John, I felt so guilty! Recently though, I _have_ been trying to get back into a normal routine, I promise. I just don't know what to do any more, and it's made ten times worse by the fact that I can't tell anybody what's wrong with me!" she wailed. It caused me great distress too, seeing a friend of mine in such a state. If only I'd thought of her sooner, instead of wallowing in my own self-pity. We could have helped each other through this. Sherlock really _did _have a lot to answer for when I found him.

"A good thing about being a doctor, Molly, is that you can tell me anything. Patient confidentiality and all that." I was hoping that she wouldn't reverse this, as she too was a doctor, just a different kind. If she asked me to divulge my thoughts, then how could I lie to her about Sherlock's death, especially given her current mental state? That _would _be hypocritical of me. I tried to reassure myself by telling my mind that I wasn't even sure whether or not pathologists were allowed to invoke this guideline.

"I'm not your patient, John," she pointed out. Ah, that was _another_ thing that I was hoping she wouldn't notice.

"A slight technicality," I cleared my throat. "Fine, forget that I'm a doctor. Just remember that I'm a friend. What's wrong, Molly?"

"Honestly John, I would tell you if I could. I'm not allowed..." My facial expression and body language must have automatically altered at those words, because Molly made a visible effort to stop herself from inadvertently revealing any more. "And now I've said too much," she said, lowering her eyes to the floor in order to avoid mine. There it was: my first clue. _See, Sherlock,_ I thought. _Tact._

I tried another angle. "That's strange, Mol, because there's something that I'm not allowed to tell you as well." We were at a crossroads. "Could it be that we are at an impasse?"

She pondered for a while. "I'm not sure that I can keep my secret any longer, John. It's eating me up inside."

"Snap, same here. Who forbade you to tell me?"

"It's not just you, I'm not supposed to tell _anybody_." The word choice of 'supposed' instead of 'allowing' indicated that her resistance was failing. She wanted to tell me, and I wanted to tell her. But first, I had to know what was going on.

"How about a compromise? At the count of three, we both say the name of the person who forbade us. Deal?"

She paused for a second before nodding.

"Okay, are you ready? One...two...three..." I had thought myself prepared for what I would hear, presuming we would say the same thing. I could not have been more wrong. "Mycroft," I said clearly, endeavoring to make eye contact.

"Sherlock," she whispered, her eyes staring straight into mine.


	6. Chapter 6

"_Sherlock?"_ I was hearing things, I had to be. It was the only possible explanation. Why else would Sherlock seemingly tell everybody else about his survival apart from me? Did I mean that _little_ to him?

"Yes, John. It was Sherlock who forbade me."

"We_ are_ talking about the same Sherlock here, aren't we?"

She ignored that comment, but then, she'd had longer to come to terms with that information than I had. "Isn't one Sherlock bad enough without imagining two?"

"'Isn't?' Surely you mean 'wasn't?'"

"Oh, er, yes. My mistake." Molly didn't make eye contact with me. She was lying, knowing more than she was choosing to reveal at present. Mycroft's last words to me were already proving to be of use, which was a refreshing change.

"No, you're lying. You know something, don't you? What did he tell you? More to the point, _when _did he tell you?"

Molly looked directly into my eyes as she spoke. There was no possibility that she could be lying to me this time. "The last time I saw him was the day that he threw himself from the building."

"So that did actually happen then?"

"It doesn't matter, John. I..."

"Why will nobody answer that question? I asked Mycroft, and he wouldn't tell me. Now you're doing the same! Even Lestrade spoke in a different tone when I rang him earlier. Why are you all being so evasive? What have I done wrong?"

"You've done nothing wrong," she said quickly. There was a little pause. "I _told_ him that you'd feel like this, but he wouldn't listen. He never listens to anybody but himself!"

"What do you mean 'he', Molly?" I said, though I had a pretty good idea that she was referring to Sherlock. I just wanted to prevent her from becoming hysterical. The last few weeks had really hurt me emotionally, and I could only imagine what Molly had been going through.

"I meant Sherlock, sorry. But like I said, _you've_ done nothing wrong, John. You see, just before he went to the roof, I made Sherlock a promise. From what you're telling me, I think Mycroft and Lestrade must've done the same. He asked me to help him, but warned me that it could endanger my life. I promised anyway. You know that I'd do anything to help him, even if he doesn't feel the same way."

"You said 'doesn't' instead of 'didn't'. You know that he's alive, don't you? Who else knows? Lestrade? Mrs. Hudson? _Anderson_?"

"I think Lestrade knows," she admitted "but I don't think the others do. Although I can't be certain, I think Sherlock only told people whom he needed assistance from."

"Did Sherlock think that _I _wouldn't help him? That I wouldn't_ willingly_ endanger my life to help him?" Even without Molly's confirmation, this notion _really _hurt. With the numbness gone, the pain returned.

"Of course he knew that you would, John. Even without his abnormal observational skills, I can see that your loyalty to him would be unwavering. The fact that you're stood here now only proves my point."

"Then why..."

"Don't you see, John? Sherlock wasn't prepared to _let _you. I don't think that he could bear it if anything happened to you. I think that the pain and suffering you've gone through was just the lesser of two evils."

_That_ stopped me in my tracks. Molly had just voiced one of my previous ideas; that Sherlock _was_ capable of feelings and sentiment, but was reluctant to let his perceived weakness show. I briefly considered asking her why Sherlock thought that I wouldn't destroy my own life as a consequence of his lie, but then I realised it would be pointless. Sherlock could probably deduce my actions and responses better than I could myself. Before I could think about this further, a realisation dawned on me.

"He wants to be found, doesn't he? He left a note in the flat." I removed it from my pocket and read the contents. "_The art of disguise is knowing how to hide in plain sight. SH."_

She nodded briefly, causing even more of her wispy hair to fall out of the tight bun. "I think he wants _you _to find him. Not me, Lestrade or even his brother. He couldn't bring himself to _deliberately_ endanger your life, but he has no control over your free will and the decisions it will cause you to make."

I thought about this for a little while. "Does it bother you than he asked you to help him, with both of you knowing it would potentially endanger you, but he didn't ask me?"

She shrugged. "I suppose it did at first, but I don't think he did it on purpose. He probably wouldn't have asked me if he hadn't needed anything from me."

"What _did_ you do to help him?" I asked, making a mental note to ask Mycroft and Lestrade the same question. "I know it may upset you to relive it, but in order for me to find him, given that we're assuming that he _wants_ to be found, I think I'll need to know what happened between you and him before he supposedly jumped from the roof."

Molly smiled sadly. "I've been reliving this for weeks now, John. Don't worry about upsetting _me_, but are you sure that you want me to tell _you_?"

"Of course." I tried to say this as calmly as I could, but my teeth were beginning to clench together. I was growing impatient to hear what had actually happened to Sherlock, to stop the arguments circling in my head, with my conscience arguing with itself.

Molly began, absentmindedly twirling one of the long wisps of hair that had escaped. "I saw Sherlock in the hours before he supposedly threw himself from the roof of the hospital. I don't know if that actually happened or not. All I knew was that he told me that I would see him again soon. This is a normal farewell statement for the average human being, so I should've known that if Sherlock spoke it, it would mean something completely different."

"Go on," I prompted before she became sidetracked. "What happened?"

"I saw him a little while later, but as I've already pointed out, it was not in a way that I could've _ever_ imagined. He was bundled into the hospital on a trolley, with a great gash in his head and his eyes glazed over. I thought he was dead, John! I really did."

"What you mean 'thought?'"

"Well, I was preparing to perform his postmortem. I'd asked somebody else to do it, begged even, but none of them were willing. They were all 'busy'. I can only conclude that Sherlock had given them money in order to ensure that the only possible scenario to present itself was that _I _had to be the one to carry out his postmortem." She shook her head slightly, as if she was dismissing an unwanted memory or thought. "I admit that I had been crying, and so my vision was blurry. I'm not ashamed of that, but it _did_ prevent me from noticing something straight away. Sherlock was still breathing, John. How could I have not _noticed_?" she wailed incredulously. This had obviously been bothering her for some time. "I mean, usually the bodies that come down to the morgue are actually _bodies,_ not _breathers._"

Molly's version of events didn't quite fit with mine. "I tried to take his pulse, but I felt nothing."

She nodded her head. "I know. I _still_ don't know how he did that. Honestly I don't. There's a gap in my knowledge of Sherlock's activities between when he left my lab to when he ended up in my mortuary."

"So what happened after that? Did you call for help?"

"No. I should have, but I didn't. His eyes stopped me. Ever since he came into the hospital, his eyes had been open, but it was as if they weren't _seeing _anything. However, his breathing was becoming more audible now, and it appeared that sight or a spark of life was returning to his eyes. I know that probably sounds a little strange. I'm not even sure if I can explain it properly through science."

"Sherlock himself could never be explained by science. What happened next?"

"Well, it was rather odd. I'd promised to help him, and I presumed that this was what he'd been referring to. I turned my back to see if there was anybody close by whom I could summon and ask to bring me an oxygen mask and stand, but when I turned round, Sherlock was sat up on the bed."

Molly was so caught up in her recollection now that my puzzled, disbelieving expression had no effect on her.

"He asked if I could get him out of the hospital without anybody noticing. I couldn't bring myself to speak because I was so _shocked_, so I simply pointed at the fire escape. He understood, gave me a message to pass on to Mycroft, forbade me to tell anyone of what had happened, and burst through the fire escape into the alley beside the building, with his coat still swishing behind him and with what seemed like blood dripping down his head."

"But why would that endanger _your_ life?"

"I think that it was simply my knowledge of his survival. There can be no doubt that he wants everybody to believe he is dead. If I go round telling people the opposite, I would draw attention to myself and cause any surviving enemies of Sherlock to become suspicious and start searching for him. He's obviously doing something important and doesn't want that, or he wouldn't have stayed away for this long. I'm sure of it."

I was about to say, possibly unfairly, that I couldn't imagine what he'd come back for, but then I realised that this might hurt Molly's feelings. I refrained from commenting, realising that my unsaid statement was only coming from my irrational feelings of believing that I had been deliberately ignored. Like Molly had said, Sherlock would've probably let _everyone_ believe the lie if he hadn't needed their help.

Molly broke the silence. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. What will you do?"

Confusion left me unsure at present. My brain still needed time to process the information and make sense of it. However, in true Holmes-style, I wasn't given the chance. My phone bleeped and, thinking that it was Mycroft again, I began to prepare a witty comment. How many times could someone choose the wrong side of a coin in a flip-a-coin bet? It seemed that the answer was 'the same amount of times that John Watson can choose the wrong brother.' The simple message, in contrast to Molly's complex news, read:

_I'm waiting. SH._


	7. Chapter 7

I left Molly's house so quickly that I didn't actually even remember leaving the building. I vaguely remembered throwing a hasty goodbye comment in her direction, taking in very little of her puzzled expression, but when I next came to my senses, I found myself getting out of a cab on Baker Street. 221B showed no sign of forced entry, even though Sherlock's house key was probably still in an evidence box within the police station, but I knew that this was not necessarily indicative of anything. Breaking and entering laws had not stopped Sherlock in the past, so I doubted that they would cause him to think twice about breaking into his own home. I doubt that I'd notice if Sherlock broke in away. T.S. Eliot and Andrew-Lloyd Webber may as well have been writing about Sherlock when they wrote the lyrics for the _Mr Mistoffelees_ song _"He can creep through the tiniest crack, he can walk on the narrowest rail."_

I fumbled with my own key as adrenaline pumped through my body. "Sherlock!" Racing up the stairs, I was only just aware that my feet were barely touching the ground, and when they did they were only brushing every other step. "Sherlock, are you there?"

There was no reply. I scrutinized the main room of the flat, the one containing the bullet-ridden yellow smiley face on the wall, looking for any sign that he had been here. I couldn't see anything. My stomach began to churn, and I leaned on the writing desk for support. Where _was_ he? I had been _so_ sure that this was the place he would come. Secluded, secure and safe. Mrs. Hudson had even gone out for the day, providing Sherlock with a perfect window of opportunity to return if he only wanted to see me, not her. After all, she still believed that he was dead. I was in the process of resigning myself to telling her of Sherlock's survival, when I belatedly realised that there was no way that I could be certain that it _was _Sherlock who had text me. It might all be a trap. The scenario that I'd previously imagined could in fact be true; if Sherlock was not dead, then Moriarty may not be either. Feeling sick, with my anticipation having drained away almost instantly at the realisation, I found that my hand was automatically searching on the desk for something that could be used as a weapon. Every sound - be it a groan, creak or rustle - seemed to be amplified, sinisterly growing closer. An assailant? Sherlock? Either way, I was not going to take any chances. As my scrambling hand searched, I attempted to reassure myself that Moriarty's modus operandi was much more direct and to-the-point than trying to scare his prey before he inevitably snared it, but this proved of little comfort to me at present. Even if it _wasn't_ Moriarty, it could easily be one of his henchmen, or perhaps another enemy of Sherlocks'. Just because Moriarty was Sherlocks' arch-enemy, and the only enemy to make himself known to us, did _not _mean that there weren't others out there. What if Molly's home had somehow been bugged, and somebody had heard that Sherlock was alive, and now they were trying to tie up lose ends by silencing Molly and I? Maybe even Sherlock himself for good this time? Was this what Molly had inferred about our lives being in danger?

Suddenly, the flat became quiet. Almost too quiet. As my hand had failed to find a weapon on the desk, I let it fall by my side and began to move hastily, but with light steps, towards the kitchen. Stopping as I crossed the threshold of the entrance to the adjoining room, I heard a loud bang originating from the staircase. Was it caused by an intruder leaving? Or _entering_? I grabbed the first thing I could find - a heavy pan - and made my way to the landing.

"It's only me, John!" Mrs. Hudson's call startled me so much that I only just managed to avoid hitting her with the pan I had swung in the nick of time.

"Mrs. Hudson! You made me jump!" It was an understatement, but I didn't want to make her feel worse than she already did.

"Oh, I am sorry, dear," she fussed. Her eyes widened as she saw the full picture; the pan that had been moments away from hitting her, the fear in my eyes as she saw that I believed her to be an intruder. "Were you, er, expecting somebody?"

"I certainly wasn't expecting you, Mrs. Hudson! I thought you'd gone out for the day." I gestured for her to follow me into my flat, which she did, and set the pan down on the desk.

"I had, dear. But then I came back." She dropped her numerous shopping bags on the floor and glanced around the flat. "Oh John, what a mess you've made!"

I refrained from mentioning that most of the mess had been caused by my frantic belief that she was an intruder. "Sorry Mrs. Hudson, I'll clean up the mess." She obviously didn't believe me, and started tidying up loose papers and items that had been knocked over in my haste. "Actually, Mrs. Hudson, I'm quite tired, so I think I'm going to go to bed." There, that was a subtle-but-clear hint that I wasn't in the mood for company now.

She understood. "Alright dear, I'll leave you to it." After scrambling to pick up her bags, she gave me a sad smile and went back downstairs to her own flat. Her absence, alongside my calming nerves and heartbeat, made the silence seem deafening. In the silence, I could have sworn that I heard violin music coming from somewhere. Of course, my first thought was Sherlock, but even _he_ wasn't theatrical enough to announce his presence via entrance music. Confused, I wandered over to the window and, to my horror, I saw the awful violin-playing busker standing back on the street corner of Baker Street. That was it. My patience gone, the painful memories too strong, my restraint snapped and I opened the window.

"Look, mate, could you stop that racket_ please_? I'm going through a really hard time right now and I just can't cope with your incessant noise! Time was, I had a friend who played the violin, and now I...I...oh just please yourself! Everybody else usually does!" With that, I slammed the window shut, but the buskers' eyes were still focussed on me, seemingly staring into my soul. He probably thought I was mad.

I turned my back to the window and absentmindedly phoned Lestrade. A logical explanation for this is that I must've been wondering if there was some legal remedy to remove this busker, thinking the other residents of Baker Street would surely thank me for getting rid of such a din.

"Lestrade speaking," he answered. I'd remembered Molly's hypothesis about Lestrade making a promise to Sherlock, but now probably wasn't the best time to mention it. Or was it?

"Hi Greg, it's John Watson. I'm calling about a couple of things, really. The first is that there's this terrible busker on Baker Street. He's _so_ bad that I would be very surprised if he had manage to obtain a license via a legal source." I was only half-joking. There was a pause, with Lestrade obviously realising that this was not all I had to say. "The only other thing was that I've spoken to somebody recently, and they think that you might be able to help me with a Sherlock-related problem."

"John," he began. I couldn't wait to hear the excuses he would give me, my anger and impatience probably caused by the knowledge that I'd been kept in the dark about Sherlock's 'death.'

"Save it, Lestrade. Tell me what you know about him."

"Ask him yourself," said a disembodied voice. It was not Lestrades', as it did not originate from the direction of the phone. The voice was male, ruling out Mrs. Hudson, Molly or even Sergeant Donovan. I began to feel sick at the next alternative. _Moriarty._ I dared to glance back at the entrance to the flat, and found myself face-to-face with a ghost. A bluey-green eyed ghost.


	8. Chapter 8

On the surface, the ghost remained perfectly still, but I knew that on the inside, the cogs of his brilliant brain were turning rapidly. I'd imagined, dreaded,_ anticipated _this event for so long now, over and over and _over_ again in my mind, but my actual response still surprised me. The scenario that presented itself was not one that I had contemplated a lot, as all the conversation starters and reactions that I had planned abandoned me, leaving us both to the mercy of my emotional instincts.

"Do you like this pan?" I asked, reaching behind me once again to feel for the object I had just set down, thinking that I was doing a pretty good job of hiding my true intentions that were striving to break through. I didn't want to give him any warning of what I was going to do next, just as he had given me no warning about how he was going to turn my life upside-down. How he was going to turn _everybody's _lives upside-down. In an instant, the ghosts' face morphed from displaying its' trademark reserved expression to a frown of confusion. He hadn't yet comprehended what I meant. It would be interesting to see the element of surprise reflected in _his _eyes this time, rather than mine.

"Do. You. Like. This. Pan?" I repeated, slowly this time.

True to form, it didn't take him long to understand something that had previously escaped his understanding. My cue was the ignition of comprehension and recognition behind those knowing eyes, the eyes that I had almost given up hope of meeting in sight again. My body was creating high amounts of adrenaline in response to my fight-or-flight reflex, and this time, I was definitely going to fight. I tightened my grip on the pan handle, stretched out my arm behind me, flung it forward and aimed the pan in his direction. In all honesty, I didn't know if I was trying to hit him deliberately or if I really wanted the pan to miss him instead, but it missed all the same.

"Now, John, wait a minute," began the ghost, holding his hand out in front of him as if to calm me, and in turn stop me from reaching behind to find something else to throw. He didn't seriously believe that I was a danger to him, and I didn't expect him to contemplate that thought for one moment. I had been in the Army, my aim was excellent. If I'd truly wanted the pan to hit him, it would've done. However, he had probably deduced that I needed to be protected from _myself _at present, given the height of my current emotional state.

"Don't tell me to 'wait a minute!' Do you know, does it even _make sense _to you, the amount of time that I _have _been waiting? I can't wait one _more _minute, Sherlock!"

And there it was. I had spoken his name, acknowledged his presence and existence.

"John, I don't know what you want me to say."

"What was that? _You _don't know what to say? You have an answer for _everything_! Even when you're supposed to be _dead_, you still manage to answer back. Leaving me cryptic notes, telling nearly everybody but me, it seems, that you were still alive!"

This conversation was not going as I had planned. "You have neglected to take proper care of yourself, John." Unless I was very much mistaken, Sherlock looked sad. Sherlock was _never_ sad, or if he was, he certainly didn't show it. "You've lost weight since - "

I could see where this was going, and there was no way that I was having _that _conversation again. "Don't try and turn this around! If I have, as you say, 'neglected to take proper care of myself', then I'm not the only person to blame for that. I thought you were _dead_, Sherlock. What did you _expect _me to do? Did you think I was going to go on a luxurious around-the-world cruise in celebration?"

"No, of course not," he said impatiently. "But then I didn't expect that you would allow yourself to - " He gestured in my direction.

"To what, hmm? Grieve? Fall apart? _Regress?_ And never mind me, what on Earth do you think your little disappearing act has done to Mrs. Hudson?" No sooner had the words left my lips did I begin to wish that I could take back everything I had done and said since Sherlock appeared back in the flat. Mrs. Hudson was only downstairs. She'd probably heard me throwing the pan at Sherlock and would come up to investigate whilst Sherlock was still _here_. I shouldn't have worried. Without even vocalising my concern, Sherlock had correctly analysed my thoughts _and_ had had the foresight to think of a way to prevent those events from occurring.

"Don't worry, John. I ensured that Mrs. Hudson was taking her afternoon nap _before_ I returned."

"She went to sleep quickly, didn't she?" Belatedly I realised that he'd probably slipped her a sleeping tablet, or one of her 'evening soothers.' Another realisation followed in quick succession. "Wait a minute, where were you _before _you came upstairs? Did I walk right past you without noticing?" It seemed incredulous to think that I should do this after missing him for so long, but with all the distracting thoughts that had been whirling around in my head, it _was _a possibility nonetheless.

Sherlocks' face twisted into something that was probably meant to pass as a wry smile, though I could see nothing funny about this situation. "You did more than that, John. You shouted at me."

"What? I haven't shouted at you. I've chucked a _pan_ at you, are you confusing the two?"

"Think, John. Remember." This latest cryptic clue triggered an outburst from me that startled both of us. With all his powers of observation, I don't think either of us saw it coming.

"I don't want to remember _anything_! But we don't always get what we want, do we? True, I wanted, pleaded, _prayed _for you to be alive, and here you are! But that _doesn't _stop me remembering our last conversation before you jumped off the hospital roof, _doesn't_ stop me remembering the sound of the _smack_ my head made against the pavement when I was knocked over in my haste to get to you! Do you know what else I'd give anything to forget, but can still remember, hmm? The sight of my _best friends' broken, bleeding body _on the ground, having fallen from such a height and landed with such an impact!"

I couldn't bring myself to look at him again after finishing my rant. A mixture of emotional exhaustion and guilt washed over me. I hadn't even given him a chance to _explain_ before bombarding him with my pain, my anger, my thoughts. Maybe, in Sherlocks' mind, there was some way to justify all of this, what he'd done and, more importantly, _why_. He may appear to be cold and uncaring on the surface, but he'd never deliberately harm somebody, physically or mentally, without good reason, without provocation. Even after that thought had passed, the final word still echoed around my brain. _Provocation_. Moriarty had _provoked _him! It all seemed so obvious now. Belated realisations seemed to occur to me in twos, with one answer leading to another one becoming clear, because no sooner had I absorbed this information did the memory of the last time I had shouted at _anybody_ come flooding back.

"You're the busker." I pointed a finger at him accusingly. "It _was _you all this time! I even came up to you in the _street_ but you didn't say anything!"

"Well, John, that would defeat the purpose of wearing a disguise." I'd forgotten how patronizing he could be sometimes.

"You didn't _want_ me to recognise you?"

"Not at that particular moment in time, no."

"But you do now?"

"Obviously." When I didn't make any further comment, he continued in an obnoxious tone, obviously riled at my lack of Holmes-level comprehension. "It was a _test_. I used a mask to disguise myself."

I shook my head. "No, impossible. I still would have recognised you. Your eyes, for one thing..."

"That was _exactly_ the theory I was testing. _You_, John, you of all people didn't recognise me, causing the final piece of Moriarty's puzzle to slot into place.

"What do you mean 'Moriarty's puzzle'?" A horrible feeling began to stir in my stomach. "He is _dead_, isn't he?"

"Yes, of course." He waved a hand impatiently, dismissively.

"Then what..."

"Don't you see? He used a mask in the image of _my face_ to scare those children, convinced them that it was I who had taken them."

"_That's _why they screamed when they saw you!"

"Exactly! Jim Moriarty was truly what I would define as an 'evil genius'. The amount of detail in the mask was almost faultless."

"'Almost'?"

"Yes. The problem with masks is that you need to create room for the wearers' eyes to see through." I waited for him to explain fully. "Nobody can replicate the detail within a persons' eyes, John! That's what retina scans on the doors of classified areas are for, because they only admit authorized people whose eyes have previously been scanned into the system."

"I _see_. No pun intended." Something still wasn't quite right though. "But I came up to you when you were busking on the street. Fair enough, the mask you wore - which I presume was created in Moriarty's lab, by the way - hid your distinctive cheekbones, but I would've recognised your eyes Sherlock, surely!"

"I believe that you failed to recognise me because you were not _really_ expecting to see me at all. You were aware that, after your conversation with my brother, your imagination was beginning to run away with itself."

Despite myself, I was smiling. "Just so you know, your busking really _was_ terrible. If you were trying to remain unnoticed, it failed."

"It didn't fail. I remained unnoticed by everyone that I _wanted_ to ignore me. It's amazing how many people will ignore you when you're asking for money, just ask the homeless network. But, I didn't want _you_ to ignore me, therefore my plan worked."

Sherlock and I had become so caught up in our conversation that we'd failed to hear the person who had crept up our staircase and was now situated on the landing. As expected, Sherlock noticed the additional presence before I did.

"John," he said slowly, his head turned to face the door. My gaze followed where he looked. Mrs. Hudson stood at the entrance to our flat, truly looking as if she had seen a ghost. For a second or two nobody moved, but when Sherlock began to step towards her, Mrs. Hudson screamed and fainted. Sherlock caught her before she hit her head on the ground, or worse, fell down the stairs she had just ascended.

I looked at the two of them, wondering how I would explain what had just happened to Mrs. Hudson if he said 'no' to my next question. "Will you stay this time?"

"Yes. I've not quite finished yet. There's still a few things I need to do."


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock knelt down and picked up the unconscious Mrs. Hudson, carried her as he crossed the floor of the room, and gently set her down in his armchair. His actions allowed me to take the time to examine him a little closer whilst he was preoccupied and therefore - I hoped - could not possibly be aware of my scrutiny. Of course, had I been a Holmes brother, I would have observed and analysed every detail within three seconds of setting eyes on him. Unfortunately I wasn't, meaning that I had to stick to normal human pace. The dark brown curly hair on his head had grown ever more unruly - it looked liked he had been attempting to cut it himself during his absence - and consequently caused him to habitually flick his head slightly to remove stray strands of hair from his eyes. I had been right in my previous suggestion that breaking and entering laws would be of little importance to him, as I had seen the bulge of his phone within his coat pocket, when it should be locked away inside an evidence locker instead. He still wore his long black coat and blue scarf, the exact same items he had been wearing on the hospital roof. This didn't surprise me. Molly had told me that Sherlock was still breathing when his 'body' was sent down to the morgue, and he'd evidently been physically healthy enough to disappear shortly afterwards. There had been no time for Molly to collect his clothes and have them sent away as evidence. Although it had been clear to Molly that Sherlock was alive, a funeral had still be held for him, which led me to wonder who - if anybody - was actually buried in his grave. There were still gaps in my knowledge regarding this, but now was not the time to try and fill them in. I was distracted by Sherlocks' gaunt appearance. He was definitely skinnier than when I last saw him, his cheekbones were more prominent. It was logical to assume that there were two possible reasons for this, the first being that it would have been difficult for a 'dead' man to stroll into a supermarket and buy food. Even if he could, he probably wouldn't have. A man that deemed an 'open and shut domestic murder' to be, in his own words, 'not worth my time' was highly unlikely to consider _shopping_ to be an effective use of his intellect. The second possible reason was that Sherlock had not been idle during his disappearance. If he had been solving puzzles secretly, he would not have been eating. Eating whilst working apparently 'slowed him down' and besides, 'everything but the brain is transport' according to him. I scoffed at the hypocrisy, as he had thought to lecture _me _on _my_ appearance and apparent weight loss.

"Why are you staring at me?" Sherlocks' voice roused me from my musings. So much for him not being aware of my scrutiny. I'd obviously spoken too soon. Sherlock sighed, having obviously come to his own deductions. "I'm _not_ a figment of your imagination, John."

"No, I know that. I just don't understand how you can look so..." I waved my hands at him, gesturing, searching for the right word. "Alive."

"What do you mean? I thought we'd already established that I'm not really dead."

"But you were, Sherlock! I felt your pulse as your broken body lay sprawled across the ground. There was nothing there. You _were_ dead."

"I'm sorry, John."

"I don't understand? You're apologising for being _alive_ now?"

"I simply meant that it didn't occur to me that you would suffer this much."

Unbelievable. "What, you expected me to recover after a little while? Carry on with life as normal?" Sarcasm laced my words. "You are my _best friend, _but that _still _wasn't enough for you, I _still_ wasn't important enough. You told your _brother_, whom you supposedly dislike by the way, that you were alive but you couldn't tell _me?_ You told me in no uncertain terms that I was your only friend, but you_ still_ put me through this...this living nightmare!"

"You _are_ my only friend, John. And yes, before you ask, you heard me perfectly. I'm not saying it again."

"Then why didn't you..."

"Why didn't I tell you that I was alive?" Sherlock finished my question for me, interrupting me in the process. I'd almost forgotten that he did that. "The same reason that I didn't tell Lestrade, or Mrs. Hudson, or anybody else for that matter. I was trying to protect you all."

"You told Molly and Mycroft," I pointed out accusingly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, but it wasn't by choice. I had too, I needed help."

"_You _needed help? _You_?"

"Don't sound so surprised, I've needed help before. Remember Raz? Soo Lin Yao? And anyway, John, _you've_ helped me countless times before, even if you didn't realise it at the time."

"If you're referring to Baskerville, then..."

"Not just Baskerville." Sherlock interrupted me again. I'd also almost forgotten how annoying it was. "Help doesn't always come in the most obvious of forms."

I grew impatient. "Sherlock! Please, just tell me what happened."

"Before I telephoned you from the hospital roof, Moriarty had informed me that he had a assassins' bullet aimed at each of my friends; namely Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and you. He said that if I did not throw myself from the building, making it appear to the world that I had committed suicide for being a 'fake genius', then he would ensure that the assassins carried out the task he had given them, which as I have said, was to murder my friends. Now, you and I have already established that _you_ are my only true friend, but needless to say, I could not allow any harm to come to Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson either."

"Of course," I managed to spit the words out as I began to experience the symptoms of fear that I should've felt when these events had first occurred, not whilst we were reliving them. The events of that day had not been the first time that my life was in danger, but it _had_ been the only time that it had occurred without my prior knowledge. "But why did he threaten to kill _us_? His vendetta and obsession was with _you_."

"Moriarty wanted me dead, not alive, and he knew how to make me jump."

"You jumped for _us_?"

"Of course."

I was incredulous. "_Why_ would you do that? You're Sherlock Holmes, for goodness sake! We're not..."

"Not what?"

"It doesn't matter. I'll rephrase what I was going to say. _I _am not important enough for you to have done that."

"Don't be absurd, John. _You_ are precisely the reason that I jumped." Sherlock was looking straight at me. I couldn't quite meet his eyes. When I didn't reply, he continued. "You were the only person that Moriarty mentioned who hadn't doubted me. At all. Even when I _deliberately_ tried to break your confidence in me, you _still_ didn't doubt me. Both Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade did, even if it _was_ only for a short amount of time. Maybe they didn't know _how_ to help me, or maybe they still believed the lie. Either way, it doesn't matter. The only help that I needed was their continued trust, which they failed to provide. The little piece of doubt had wormed its way into _their _brains, but not your brain, John. _You_ never doubted me."

"Mrs. Hudson asked after you, you know. When I returned to Baker Street, thinking she had been shot, she asked if you'd sorted everything out with the police." I still didn't know who had set up that phone call in order to temporarily remove me from the equation, whether it had been Sherlock or Moriarty, but the important thing was that Mrs. Hudson had not been harmed. I was not going to fret over the details of _that _phone call when I was still preoccupied with the last phone call I had shared with Sherlock.

"It doesn't matter, it's no longer important. The main thing on my mind as I stood on that roof was that I couldn't let you die, John. I just...couldn't. If my death would save your life, then that is what had to happen."

"If you'd asked me, then I would have willingly given my life for yours anyway! My life ended with your death, Sherlock. As I said to your brother, I didn't have a life before I met you. I merely had an existence. _This_ was the state that I returned to after your 'demise.'"

"I know."

"What do you mean?"

"I saw you visit my grave with Mrs. Hudson. I stood in the shadows as I watched you say goodbye. You said these precise words: 'I was so alone, and I owe you so much. Please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be...dead.'"

"You were _there_?" I didn't mean for it to sound like a question, as I knew that Sherlock would never lie to me. That was something_ else_ that I had said at his graveside. I simply remained incredulous. "You were _there_, you heard _all of that_, and yet you _still _didn't tell me you were alive!"

"I _couldn't _tell you."

"It seems like you 'couldn't' tell me a lot of things, Sherlock! You've still not told me whether or not you actually_ did_ jump from the hospital roof, or how you survived if you did! Don't I deserve that much of an explanation at least?"

"Yes, you do. So does Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock gestured to where her unconscious form lay. She would be regaining consciousness soon though. "And so does Lestrade, and Molly, and even my dearest brother Mycroft." Judging by the way that Sherlock gritted his teeth as he spoke Mycrofts' name, he still hadn't forgiven him for revealing his personal information to Moriarty. At least, I was presuming that he'd found out about that by now. It had been a while since it happened, and Sherlock very rarely missed anything. A new thought occurred to me now that the previous information Sherlock had given me was beginning to sink in.

"Why didn't Moriarty threaten Molly and Mycroft with an assassins' bullet? Why didn't he class them as your friends?"

"Moriarty was aware of the fragile state of the relationship between Mycroft and I. He probably presumed that I would not have been the slightest bit concerned about whether or not my brother survived, therefore in his eyes, the threat of Mycrofts' death was not sufficient motivation for me to jump." I was tempted to ask whether or not Sherlock _would _have been concerned if this scenario had presented itself, but I realised that I already knew the answer. The Holmes brothers _did_ care about each other, but remained so steadfast in their belief that 'sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side' that neither party was willing to admit their _feelings_. "If you remember, _she_ revealed that Moriarty had nicknames for us, implying that he _was_ aware of our strained relationship." I observed that, for whatever reason, Sherlock still could not bring himself to say Irene Adlers' name.

"What about Molly?"

"I believe that Moriarty simply did not deem her to be of significant importance to me. He overlooked her, _used _her even. She said to me once that 'she didn't count'." Sherlock scoffed. "She believed that she didn't count, and yet I couldn't have done this without her. Apart from you, John, she was the only person whose trust in me never faltered, and_ I_ have always trusted _her_."

I nodded in understanding, agreeing with what Sherlock had hypothesised.

"John." A faint sound escaped from Mrs. Hudsons' lips. She was regaining consciousness, and neither Sherlock or I could be certain about how much of our conversations she had overheard. "Sherlock's back, John," she murmured.

"I think it might be a good idea if, when she had regained consciousness, you reveal your survival to her _gently_. Afterwards, I think it is time for you to tell everybody else the truth, too. The _whole_ truth, starting from the phone call I received saying that Mrs. Hudson had been shot, and ending in the present day." I said quickly, but quietly.

"You're right, there's no time like the present." Sherlock removed his coat and scarf, hung them on the back of the door, and then settled in _my_ armchair. After the hospital roof incident, I had positioned the two armchairs - Sherlocks' and mine - so that they were facing away from each other. By placing himself here, Sherlock would not immediately be in Mrs. Hudsons' line of sight when she regained consciousness. She would have to turn her head and look behind her in order to see him, which would therefore prevent her from fainting again from shock if she saw him without any warning. "Send a text to Molly, Lestrade and Mycroft which reads these words exactly: 'Come to Baker St ASAP. Need to discuss something with you.' Oh, and be sure to use _your_ phone. Using mine would lead to all sorts of confusion, given that Lestrade still believes me to be dead."

I typed the exact words that Sherlock had dictated, and sent the text before either of us could change our minds. We had passed the point of no return. Mrs. Hudson would be conscious within seconds, and there would be no turning back for Sherlock now. Once she saw him, he was back for good. There could be no more disappearing acts. Looking at the bigger picture, his return would cause the world countless problems, given that they believed him to be dead, but at the same time, it would cause an end to all of _my_ problems, _my _nightmares. And also, those of Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft and Molly. Together, we could all work out a plan to put things right, a final _solution_.


End file.
